Let Go and Let God Do What Needs to Be Done

There comes a point in every season where you have to ask yourself a hard question:

Am I trusting God, or am I trying to help Him?

This week, that question has been sitting heavy on my heart.

Because if I'm being honest, I have been tired.

Not physically tired.

Not "I need a nap" tired.

Soul tired.

The kind of tired that comes from carrying things for too long.

The kind of tired that comes from fighting battles you can't win with effort.

The kind of tired that comes from trying to hold together a future you can't see.

For the last several months, I have been fighting for God Said No. Fighting for my book. Fighting for the vision God placed inside of me. Fighting to make sure the message reaches the people who need it. Fighting to make purpose come from pain. Fighting to make sure that the lives of my boys continue to impact the world.

And while none of those things are bad, somewhere along the way, I stopped carrying the assignment and started carrying the outcome.

There is a difference.

God gave me the vision.

But I started trying to manage the results.

God called me to write.

But I started worrying about who would read it.

God called me to build.

But I started worrying about how it would grow.

God called me to plant.

But I became consumed with the harvest.

And lately, that has felt overwhelming.

Because if I'm being completely transparent, I am in a season of uncertainty.

I know what God said.

I know what He showed me.

I know what He placed in my spirit.

But knowing the assignment and understanding the plan are two very different things.

And uncertainty can make you question everything.

Am I doing enough?

Am I doing too much?

Am I forcing something?

Am I waiting on something?

Should I push harder?

Should I sit still?

What if it never happens?

What if I heard God wrong?

What if...

What if...

What if...

And before you know it, you're carrying questions God never asked you to answer.

So I went away.

Not because I thought a trip would fix my grief.

I've learned grief doesn't work like that.

You don't outrun grief.

You don't out vacation grief.

You don't out travel grief.

Grief gets on the plane with you.

Healing gets on the plane with you.

Life gets on the plane with you.

I went away because my soul needed room to breathe.

I needed rest.

I needed quiet.

I needed perspective.

I needed a reminder that before I am a caregiver, an author, a business owner, a speaker, a wife, a mother, a hope dealer, I am simply God's daughter.

And the retreat gave me exactly what I needed.

It really did.

I rested.

I laughed.

I cried.

I reflected.

I healed.

I breathed deeper than I have in months.

For a few days, I wasn't trying to survive.

I was simply present.

And maybe that's exactly what God intended.

But life still happened.

Because life always happens.

I encountered racism.

I encountered classism.

I encountered situations that reminded me that no matter where you go, the world is still the world.

And if I'm honest, there was a moment where I thought:

"Lord, can I just catch a break?"

I had gone away seeking peace and still found myself facing hurt.

I had gone away seeking healing and still found myself navigating things that wounded me.

And then God revealed something that changed my perspective.

The goal was never to escape life.

The goal was to heal enough to live it.

That hit me differently.

Because somewhere in my mind, I had connected peace with the absence of problems.

As if peace would arrive when everything worked out.

When the book took off.

When the business grew.

When the opportunities came.

When people treated me fairly.

When doors opened.

When uncertainty disappeared.

But peace was never on the other side of perfect circumstances.

Peace is knowing God is present even when circumstances aren't.

Then came the conviction.

Not about the retreat.

Not about the people.

Not about the circumstances.

About me.

About my grip.

My grip on timelines.

My grip on expectations.

My grip on outcomes.

My grip on what I think success should look like.

Because the truth is, I've been trying to help God.

I've been carrying things He never assigned me to carry.

God called me to write.

He never called me to determine who buys the book.

God called me to share.

He never called me to control who listens.

God called me to build.

He never called me to force doors open.

God called me to plant.

He never promised I would control the harvest.

And that's hard for me.

Because if you know me, then you know I am a doer.

I am a builder.

I am a strategist.

I am the person who figures things out.

I know how to make things happen.

I know how to survive.

I know how to push through.

But grief has taught me something success never could.

There are some things your effort cannot fix.

There are some things your hustle cannot create.

There are some things your determination cannot force.

There are some things only God can do.

And maybe that's what this season is really about.

Not the platform.

Not the book.

Not the business.

Not the numbers.

Not the recognition.

Trust.

Real trust.

The kind of trust that exists when there is no evidence.

The kind of trust that remains when nothing makes sense.

The kind of trust that survives uncertainty.

The kind of trust that says:

"God, if this succeeds, You did it."

"God, if it grows slowly, You are still God."

"God, if the path changes, You are still God."

"God, if I don't understand what You're doing, You are still God."

Because when I look back over my life, God has never failed me.

Not once.

Not through Darren.

Not through Jaxon.

Not through caregiving.

Not through heartbreak.

Not through betrayal.

Not through depression.

Not through financial struggles.

Not through seasons when I thought I wouldn't survive.

He has never once abandoned me.

The same God who carried me through burying two sons is fully capable of carrying a book.

The same God who carried me through unimaginable loss is fully capable of carrying a vision.

The same God who sustained me when breathing felt impossible is fully capable of sustaining

God Said No.

The problem was never His ability.

The problem was my willingness to release it.

So this week, I'm letting go.

Not of the vision.

Not of the calling.

Not of the dream.

Not of the work.

Just the weight.

The weight of making it happen.

The weight of proving myself.

The weight of controlling outcomes.

The weight of forcing timelines.

The weight of believing everything depends on me.

Because it doesn't.

And honestly?

That's freeing.

I am realizing that surrender is not quitting.

Surrender is making room.

Making room for God to do what only God can do.

Making room for miracles.

Making room for unexpected doors.

Making room for provision.

Making room for peace.

Making room for God.

Because sometimes our hands are so tightly wrapped around what we want that we leave no room to receive what He has planned.

And I don't want to live like that anymore.

I don't want to spend my life wrestling God for control.

I want to trust Him.

Even here.

Even now.

Even in uncertainty.

Even when I cannot see the outcome.

For the One Walking This Too

Maybe you're carrying something God never asked you to carry.

A relationship.

A dream.

A business.

A diagnosis.

A disappointment.

A timeline.

A future.

Friend, hear me:

Do the work.

Write the book.

Start the business.

Go to therapy.

Take the trip.

Pray the prayer.

Plant the seed.

Show up.

Then let God be God.

Your calling is your responsibility.

The outcome is not.

And maybe the greatest lesson this season is teaching me is this:

You can change your scenery.

You can take the retreat.

You can get away for a while.

But life will still be there when you return.

The blessing isn't that life stops happening.

The blessing is discovering that God never stopped walking beside you through it.

"Be still, and know that I am God." — Psalm 46:10

Maybe that's the answer I've been looking for all along.

Not a guarantee.

Not a timeline.

Not certainty.

Just a reminder.

God doesn't need my help being God.

And maybe it's finally time for me to put down what was never mine to carry in the first place.

— Shantrael Taylor

Hope Dealer

P.S. Mommy,

Before I go, there is something I need to say to you.

Being the mother of a warrior isn't easy.

People see the fighter in me. They see the resilience, the determination, the strength, the ability to keep going when life has every reason to make me stop. What they don't always see is the woman standing closest to the battlefield.

You.

Because when life happens, you're often the first one in line. The first phone call. The first person to hear the good, the bad, the ugly, and everything in between. The first person to celebrate with me. The first person to cry with me. The first person to help me pick up the pieces when life falls apart.

And if I'm honest, sometimes that comes at a cost to you.

Sometimes my storms become your storms.

Sometimes my burdens become your burdens.

Sometimes my grief spills into your heart because you love me enough to carry a piece of it too.

I don't know if I tell you enough, but Mommy, you are amazing.

Not because you're perfect.

Not because you have all the answers.

But because you never stop showing up.

You have loved me through seasons that would have made many people walk away. You have sat with me in hospital rooms, in funeral homes, in moments of celebration, and moments of devastation. You have carried me when I didn't have the strength to carry myself.

You have given from places that were probably already empty.

And somehow, you kept giving.

The older I get, the more I realize what a gift that is.

There truly is no one else like you.

No one loves quite like you.

No one fights quite like you.

No one sacrifices quite like you.

No one mothers quite like you.

And while people may call me strong, I know where I learned it from.

When I rock, you roll.

When I hurt, you hurt.

When I win, you celebrate as if the victory were your own.

And the truth is, many of my victories are your victories, because I would not be who I am without the countless ways you've poured into me.

So thank you.

Thank you for loving me on the days I'm easy to love and the days I'm not.

Thank you for giving me grace when grief made me difficult.

Thank you for reminding me who I am when I forgot.

Thank you for never letting me quit on myself.

Most of all, thank you for being my Mommy.

Not everyone gets a mother who becomes their safe place.

I do.

And I hope you know that I see you.

I hear you.

I appreciate you.

I honor you.

And I love you more than words on a page could ever fully explain.

Your daughter, always,

Shantrael